


Do Not Swear By the Moon

by HerenorThereNearnorFar



Series: Not Yet Weary (Of This Frail World's Decay) [1]
Category: Kubo and the Two Strings (2016)
Genre: And Her Demi-Goddessness Is Showing, Backstory, Gen, She's Kind Of A Mess, Slightly Concussed Narrator, Very Concussed Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8005885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerenorThereNearnorFar/pseuds/HerenorThereNearnorFar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before there are heroes, there are heroes' mothers. </p>
<p>(More often then not they're pretty heroic too.)</p>
<p>Sariatu between the scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do Not Swear By the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I love Kubo so, so much. Sariatu is amazing. 
> 
> This is kind of concept writing for a big ambitious AU that might happen at some point, since I've already done half the research for it. The Sisters have names and I've pulled out the period accurate maps of Japan and everything.
> 
> Edit: Cleaned up some details.

She can feel the moon tugging at her soul, pulling her home.

She curls tighter around her Kubo and tries to block out the sensation that her heart is not meant for this place.

Her head is jumbled and liquid; she is as water, ready to give in and sink boneless into the sand. Ready to heed the her father’s call and slink home, obedient as the tide.

It is harder to hold onto humanity with blood pouring down her face, and a white hot dagger of pain slicing through her skull. It is harder to hold onto humanity without Hanzo.

Kubo’s cries are soft but insistent, and they keep her tethered to the earth.

Her baby, her little boy. What pain he must be in. No mother could ever forgive such an attack.

To give in would be to betray him and to die would be to abandon him, and neither are acceptable.

She makes the little clicking noises the wet nurse taught her, to try to calm him and then remembers that he must eat. He is human and he must eat.

Hanzo had always reminded her of things like that. To eat, to sleep, to not startle the servants. He had hired a nursemaid to teach her how to breastfeed, for such things simply were not done in the kingdom of heaven and she did not know how.

(Babies are inelegant and troublesome. Growing up is such a messy affair. Her father’s kingdom is above such things, so she’d had a lot to learn when Kubo had been born.)

(She has no one to teach her now.)

He is much quieter while eating, and the small hungry sucking noises are almost drowned out by the hiss and crash of the waves. The moon is setting, and that is a blessing. As it sinks over the horizon she can feel the magic of the night ebb away. The tugging at her very being stops and her mind….

It is not clearer. She still feels the aching confusion and the stabbing pain. But it is calmer, and she thinks, perhaps, she can sleep.

Kubo’s little hand catches at the edge of her inner robe, pulled aside for him to nurse.

The tide- having receded to its farthest at the bequest of the demanding moon- slowly slithers back in.

 

 

 

 

When Sariatu awakens there are voices around her, timorous and querulous, but she cannot make out the words. Kubo breathes gently in her arms, the Dark Sea laps at her feet, and the voices are as coherent as the whispering water.

The sun, high and cold but still unforgiving, beats down on her back, not even beginning to dry her ocean logged robes, and still the voices continue, insistent and worried.

She makes out an uncertain “My Lady?” and a few snippets of arguing before arms lift her up. She clings to Kubo tightly.

“Heavens help us, there’s a baby with her,” one of her rescuers breathes and she knows the heavens are not what they should invoke, for the heavens are not kind.

 

 

 

They give her food, and so she eats.

They give her a mat and a blanket and so she lays down.

Her outer robes are hung out to dry, her shamisen is carefully propped by the door, but she does not let them take her Kubo or the robe he is wrapped in.

She cannot find within her the strength to speak, and the strangers do not push her. There are respectful in the way of people faced with the unknown, a strange woman in strange rich clothing washed up on the beach is not to be trifled with.

It is a simple house, more simple than the palaces of her youth or her husband’s stronghold. These are simple people. They cannot begin to understand the machinations of the mighty, but they know enough to be wary of the strange and unexplainable.

She wants to ask where they are, how close they are to Hanzo’s holdings, if has heard about a brave samurai lord attacked by unearthly forces- but the daylight saps her strength even as it protects them.

It takes time to fall asleep, but sleep she must.

Her dreams are jumbled, scraps of memory flitting just beyond her reach. Her father leaning over Kubo’s crib, hoarse screaming, the rush as the warriors struggled to defend the walls. Her sisters’ accusations. Hanzo’s last gift, the robe off of his back. Running, running, running. Finding a boat and sailing for days, down the treacherous coast, why, she could not remember.

(They had been going somewhere, she thought, but it was hard to remember. Her head had been cracked open like an egg and half the thoughts had spilled out.)

By the time she awakens the house is crowded with curious human faces, weather worn and gentle, but full of questions. She can feel the barely waning moon low in the afternoon sky outside, and with it comes her energy.

Her voice feels new and strange, lower and more strained than it had been.

“My shamisen?”

One of her hosts, an older woman with a greying bun and faded clothes, brings it over. She strums a chord and finds the silk strings miraculously have not broken in the storm. The magic imbued in it has not deserted her yet, and neither has her power.

All eyes are on her, but she is not unused to attention. Her fingers pluck out a commanding note, and she tries to remember how to smile.

“I thank you for your hospitality. It is more than I can repay.” Her audience leans forward. Kubo fusses, and she knows he needs changing and another feeding soon.

“It’s nothing,” the old fisherman demurs, and his wife asks,

“Now, what brought a nice looking girl like you here?”

“I- my husband was killed,” Sariatu swallows sorrow, “I fled with my child to protect him. Where are we, may I ask?”

“Chikuzen Province, on the coast of the Dark Sea, my lady,” the old fisherman says, respectfully.

“Sariatu, please. Is there anyway I can repay you for your kindness?” she asks. If father had taught her one thing it was her niceties. The formalities of the heavens are awkward and heavy on the earth, but they are all she can manage.

“We just want to help,” the fisherman’s wife tells her firmly, “You have an injured child to think of, and I don’t think the poor thing would take it kindly if we let his mother die,” she adds and the other peasants nod in agreement, though they cannot have much to share. Even the bowl of broth and noodles they had given her was surely precious. Sariatu’s eyes danced around the little house, taking in the woven roof, sturdy construction, the fishing nets set outside the door to mend.

She staggers to her feet, waves off the helping hands, and holds her shamisen tightly to her. Chords for mending and thread, magic for making knots hold and never fray, come slowly back to the forefront of her mind. The villagers still and their eyes widen as the nets twist in the air and Sariatu finds herself drained when the thrumming magic finally fades out of the air.

She is not well.

It is such a little spell, yet she sags against the door frame- feeling too dizzy to stand- as the motley assortment of farmers and fishermen and children collect themselves.

One old woman laughs, “My, that was something!” she says between chuckles and there is more appreciation than fear. The other villagers break into uncertain smiles, a few clap half heartedly, and Sariatu smiles out of instinctive politeness. A young woman who looks enough like the fisherman to ping her carefully cultivated radar for human relationships, scoops up the nets and inspects them, and exclamations of admiration and gratitude start up.

They drift through her head without hitting her ears, and only Kubo’s cry jolts her from her stupor.

The fisherman’s wife is rocking him gently, reaching for the bandages around his eye and Sariatu panics.

“Please, no, give him here, please!” she pleads, and holds him close. He quiets, pressed to her chest and she breathes easily again.

“His eye is gone.” the fisherman’s wife says softly, so as not to draw the attention of the crowd. It is not a question.

“He was hurt.” she says simply.

“Still a charming little lad, isn’t he?”

They are all so kind.

The crowd parts before her like the sea as she goes to fetch her robes from outside. The salt has undeniably ruined them, but she does not intend to go to any court function anytime soon and she feels bare in just her plain white inner robe and red split skirt. She pulls on each layer one arm at a time, so she can hold Kubo close to her, and the crowd watches curiously, whispering among themselves.

When it is done she pulls her hair out to drape down either side of her, and settles Kubo on her back. The sun is not yet low in the sky, and she has time before her sisters hunt for them again.

“Thank you again, for helping me.”

“You can’t leave, where will you go?” the fisherman asks, worried for her sake in a way that is stupid and sweet and human. They always worry, for strangers who sword fight them and for women who wash out of the sea. They almost always care.

It is misplaced, but appreciated.

“I cannot stay, it is not safe for you.”

“Is it safe for your son, out there alone with monsters and bandits?” the wife queries, and Sariatu pauses.

“It is as safe as I can make him,” she says finally.

 

 

 

She has a train of followers as she heads down the coast and she gets the sense that their community appointed job is to make sure she doesn’t throw herself off a cliff without due thought.

They’re all strapping men with mothers alongside to look after them, and Sariatu manages to lose them all in the tall grass hills.

She can see a village from up here, and houses and farms along the scenery, and a forest down below. The sea stretches out on the other side of her, pale and treacherous.

She knows where she wants to go.

The rock outcropping overlooking the water stretches up and up and up until it ends in a sharp point, like a spearhead aimed at the sky. The cave is already there, just as she saw it the night before, all she has to do is clean things up a little bit. 

She raises her bachi to the heavens and brings it down sharply, lets the music fill the air. The twang of a rushed tuning job grates at her ears, but it works for her purposes.

The stone rumbles and splits. Tons of rock shear off into the ocean, crashing and grating until the music is almost covered up by the noise. Magic shaves through stone like a knife through flesh, carves away at the front and sides of the edifice. Clean lines, sharp edges. Exactly what she wants and nothing more. The winding path is made wide enough for woman with a baby, the cave is shaken free of bugs and birds nests. Alcoves and hand holds are carved, dust is swept out to the wind. 

Kubo screams.

She drops her bachi and swings his sling around to her front, lets the rumbles die away and croons gently to him. She thinks she’s done enough.

The newly cleared path up the pyramid of rock is not for the faint of heart. The drop would be deadly, the stone still creaks with magic. She takes it in little steps, more for Kubo’s sake than her own. His good temper has reached its limit, just as they have reached the end of their flight.

The cave is dark and cool, hidden away from the sky. There is no fire and no food, but it will serve. All she needs is her son and all her needs is her.

She gets him cleaned up, and fed, washes the blood from her face, and settles them both into a corner of the cave that the wind does not touch.

There is a voice outside.

“Now, I’ve lived here for more years than I can count, and I’d swear this cave was never so accessible, am I right, girls?”

The fisherman’s wife is hugging the wall and glancing cautiously at the roiling sea far below. There are two blankets in her arms, and a little line of women with similar offerings behind her.

“You don’t need to do this.”

“We want to,” comes the stubborn reply. “It would be unneighbourly to leave a young woman and a baby alone in a cave. Why, it would bring dishonour on our whole village! After Hibiki ran off with the tailor’s daughter we don’t need any more of that.”

“I-thank you.” Her heart fills with appreciation, for the simple kindness given to her. Hanzo had been one thing, Hanzo had been extraordinary, this was… ordinary. So very, very ordinary.

It’s nice to know she’d chosen well.

It’s nice to know Kubo would be taken care of, for she knew with a sudden certainty that her injury was worse than she could fathom.

“Let’s get a fire going, and a place for the little one to sleep, shall we?” someone suggests helpfully, prompting Sariatu’s fuzzy brain.

She remembers the niceties for this.

“Please, come in.”


End file.
